


A Little Piece of Heaven

by Merixcil



Series: Tumblr Fics [80]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Corpse Desecration, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Necrophilia, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: Joker makes a mess, and then he makes the best of a bad situation
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Series: Tumblr Fics [80]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759627
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	A Little Piece of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't checked the tags on this I strongly recommend you do before you read

He should go into pest control, with a catch like this on his resume he’d drive the competition out of town in a matter of hours. And that’s without fumigation, since you were wondering. Otis Flannigan who?

The methodology is simple enough, not like he’ll forget it in a hurry. Which is good because he’s not about to write this one down, too high a risk of it falling into the hands of his competition. No siree, the evening news can ruminate on this one all on their lonesome, or maybe scrape together a handful of so-called experts who can’t see past the knife stuck into the body’s left shoulder. You can’t claim to know what you’re talking about and then posit that the Batman died of blood loss. The Batman doesn’t have blood, silly, he’s all sewage and electricity, the same as the rest of Gotham.

Joker looks down at the body, making a big show of sniffing the air, just in case any wayward children might be watching him, in need of a stronger visual to cement their status as part of the traumatised masses who will go on to carve their retribution into the concrete at their feet. That, and he wants to be doubly sure that he hasn’t missed a spot in this escapade.

The dull funk of piss and shit rising from the body confirms his wildest dreams. Dead. As the proverbial doorpost. Either that of he’s learned to void his bowels on command.

Grabbing him by the ears of the cowl, Joker twists his head forward to get a better look. Water from the puddle he landed in dribbles out of the body's mouth, grime already caking itself to the dead weight of his skull. His arms are splayed wide like he was trying to imitate Christ when he but the bullet, but his legs haven’t played along, all akimbo where he was trying to find purchase on the tarmac.

It’s not even an alleyway, really, just a partial indent in the physicality of this street, a place for Gotham’s best Serbian restaurant to throw their unwanted scraps. The witching hour has long since passed but the sun won’t disturb them for a few hours yet. No one will find the body till the morning shift starts and that’s when the media circus will have their chance to come to town.

They’ll perform an autopsy, just to be sure. They won’t find anything in the beast’s gut that could have laid him out, but they’ll try. Poison, or the fucking knife. They’ll rip off his face to get a good look at the lie beneath and then they’ll act like the face he would sometimes use to pretend to be a person was significant.

Joker doesn’t just drop him; he slams the Bat’s face back into the puddle with enough force to break his stupid dead nose. The blood comes slow and thick, already starting to congeal inside him. All the legends, all the nights spent looming over Gotham like some ghostly protector, like a fairy-tale brought to life, it was all lies.

“He’s really dead.” Joker says to himself, to be sure it’s still real. There’s a slab of meat before him, unmoving and incomplete without the fire that used to burn within. “He’s really…ha!”

He laughs. He tries so hard to keep laughing. The sound isn’t stuck in his throat or whatever other literary drivel could be painted over the stuttering of his engine. Something that feels horribly unlike rage or joy is beating against the back of his mouth, digging into his gag reflex to stop him from breathing properly. Hands come up and twist into his hair, pulling hard enough to rip it from his scalp. The pain is supposed to centre him, but it just leaves him half bald.

“Get up!” Joker snaps, his voice echoing off the rain slicked walls of the housing block in front of him. It’s always raining in Gotham, washing all the blood and shit into the drains. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over all the vermin will drown. Oh, that’s a classic, one of Pagliacci’s best.

Vermin don’t drown. Rats swim, bats fly. Everything breeds so quickly it’s out of your hands before you can blink. These things want to live, and they want to die in such monumental numbers that you are overwhelmed by their sheer destructibility. You kill enough mice in a city like this and the ones that are left start to look like ghosts.

Joker lays a hand on the small of the corpse’s back, feeling vulcanised rubber through the damp curtain of the cape sprawled across the body like an ineffective mourning shroud. He snatches at the fabric and is only distantly aware of how much effort it takes to rip it away.

Without the cape, he looks naked. Taunting Joker with an artificially pert ass that can’t possibly be so well defined under the suit. One last challenge: I dare you to take a look.

Joker’s hands go to the utility belt, slipping under the dead weight of rapidly stiffening hips in search of a buckle. Intimacy spread over two decades has given him time to touch every inch of this body individually, making sense of the cartography of a form so unlike his that felt like it belonged to him all the same. His fingers scrabble over the hard-plastic carapace of his monster, twitching out of his control to make him miss the mark every time he gets close to hooking the damn thing open. There has to be an easier way, even the most heavily armoured insect has to shed it’s skin every now and then in order to grow.

By the time he’s done, Joker’s ruined a perfectly good set of finger nails but the suit is broken open to reveal sickly pale skin already bloating black around the last set of bruises the brute ever received. There’s enough of a chill in the air that the body won’t start to stink till dawn, not properly, not if you ignore the shit already leaking through his underwear.

Little black briefs that hug his tooshie like it’s their beloved firstborn. The suit was telling fibs about the precise curvature of his ass, but it wasn’t far off. Joker gives it a firm slap, making sure to get a grope in while there’s still something worth groping, then hooks two fingers over the hem and pulls down ever so slightly, to see the blood pool at the top of Batman’s crack.

To be washed away by the rain. Joker is struck by a deliciously terrible idea.

“You don’t mind, do ya sweetcheeks?” His voice comes ragged and stuttering, as if he’d been crying.

Joker strips the beast below the waist, dispensing with padded leggings and steel capped boots before he spreads the thighs as far apart as rigor mortis will allow. There’s no two ways about it, human waste is gross and with no one to fling it at it’s not even funny. But hey, what else are capes for?

Once he’s done the heavy lifting, Joker sits back to let the rain finish up poop patrol. It probably won’t leave things completely spic and span but worst comes to the worst, he can just not look. Supposedly, what you don’t know won’t kill you.

Muscles cramping beneath sodden clothes, Joker's becoming a parody of a corpse himself. He could wait all night if he had to, but time is limited in a city that so rarely refuses to bed down for a cat nap. Now or never, it’s not like anyone’s going to notice this stink amongst all the others, anyway.

Like clockwork, his body rises to the occasion. Ha! Tough and tightening skin and muscle tear as he pushes in, chasing after a residual heat still trying to convince him that there might be something still living at the heart of this vague assembly of body parts. He can’t quite catch it, no matter how deep he goes and how far apart he pushes aside the cheeks of the Batman’s ass. As long as he’s moving though, snapping his hips all the more smoothly as clotted blood starts to fill the empty cavity, the resulting friction produces a warmth that he can half persuade himself is the same as it would have been in life.

He surprises himself with the delicacy of his gasp as he comes. Looking down, Joker sees his thighs shining wet from the rain and covered in human filth and blood and his revulsion is strong enough to leave him gagging, his stomach too empty to puke.

There’s nothing left of the Bat. This is just a meat puppet and Joker is a disloyal, hypocritical mess. “I shoulda left you for the birds. Or the pigs. Or the dogs. What’s the paparazzi animal again? Whatever, they’re gonna love this.”

There are old jobs he’s been meaning to cross off his to do list and schemes he should really follow up on dotted all around the city. Day to day shit, the stuff he does when he’s waiting for Batman’s ire to fully ripen and fall, rotting, from the tree. You have to give these things time, but not so much that he thinks you’ve left town. You have to mix things up without breaking your pattern beyond what he can track.

You have to have a Bat. Joker gives it till the end of the week till one of the little birds dons their father’s mantle and comes after him. Pale, transparent, plasma versions of the real thing. He hates it, it makes him want to fucking die.

To fucking…

“I can do that.”

Reaching for the pistol tucked into the top pocket of his jacket, safety off because of course it is, Joker’s sure he’s still got one in the chamber. Barrel up, aim straight and true.

Joker eyes the twin pricks of the Bat’s ears one last time. “Surprise, bitch! Bet you thought you’d seen the last of me. Well guess what, sugarplum – no way my heaven doesn’t have you in it. I’ll see you in five.”

Real bullets are for suckers. The trigger snaps forward and the little _Bang_ flag crashes clean through Joker’s eye into the back of his head, doing the job with far more flare than anything built for the task could ever manage.

**Author's Note:**

> I am once again stealing lines wholesale from Watchmen and daring Alan Moore to do something about it. The title is borrowed from [the Avenged Sevenfold song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KVjBCT2Lc94), because there really is no better song about necrophilia
> 
> Anyways, if you got to the end of this I'm very sorry. his was originally posted on my [tumblr](https://jeffersonhairpie.tumblr.com/). You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/chadfuture_)
> 
> Comments are love!


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